


Estranged

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Almost Divorces, Angst and Humor, Dwarven Politics, Hobbit Law, Humor, Multi, Thorin 'Talking About Issues is For Elves' Oakenshield
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:26:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody knows the story. Batty Baggins ran off on an adventure, came back with gold and a dwarf of his own. But that was then, and this is now - now, Bilbo is in the Shire, and Thorin back in Erebor, their marriage only existing on paper anymore. It was a bitter set of consequences that pulled them apart, and they've made their peace with that, more or less. However, peace turns out to be a very fragile concept when they meet again under the least likely circumstances, forced to come face to face with the things long left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is not exactly uncommon for dwarves to pass through these parts these days, and so Bilbo doesn’t pay the news much attention, even though he hears about it from at least three separate and very excited sources within the span of one day. ‘ _An exceptionally pompous group, if you ask me’_ , Mister Bellybur calls them. ‘ _No manners whatsoever,’_ complains Missus Bracegirdle. ‘ _Are you sure they’re not some of yours?’_ asks Mister Gamgee, very endearing (and the slightest bit annoying) in presuming that since Bilbo went on an adventure with a company of dwarves, he is now acquainted with _every single one of them._

Which he isn’t, and so he doesn’t half worry about it – his friends would have written to him well beforehand if they'd decided to visit, he knows, and even if they chose to surprise him, they would have been at his doorstep already, always deriving a lot of pleasure from turning heads as they marched up to Bag End, their reunion with Bilbo often ending up a public spectacle.

No, these are probably just merchants heading to Bree from the Blue Mountains, or some such thing, and so Bilbo dismisses it and goes about his day without a hitch.

Still, a part of him almost expects a knock to come at some very rude time in the night – it’s been years, years now since they first stomped up to his doorstep, and his life has not been the same since, of course. He bears evidence of his adventure with him everywhere he goes, be it the thin, faded scar here and there, or the ring always in his pocket, but more than that, everyone _knows_ about him. _Batty Baggins, ran off on an adventure, came back with gold and a dwarf of his own._

It is with a fond smile that he tends to recall first bringing Thorin to the Shire, after surviving both the horrors of the quest, and the torment of actually finding their way to each other – it took Bilbo well over three years to return here, what with Thorin’s duties in the newly reclaimed Erebor keeping both of them there, but it was a joy when they finally had enough time to get away for a bit.

He remembers Thorin raising a right ruckus simply by marching by Bilbo’s side wherever they went, tall and imposing, and he remembers him getting used to a peaceful life that consisted mostly of eating regularly and sleeping in plenty... Oh, how quickly he got used to it. Even managed to convince the hobbits, a people suspicious of strangers by design, of his good intentions, and before they knew it, he was walking down the pathways of the Shire wearing clothing Bilbo had had to have specially made for his broad shoulders and strong legs, his hair gathered up in a ponytail, his flimsy bare feet getting used to the grass and the dirt and the pebbles...

But of course, all of that is in the past now, long in the past, and all evidence that Bilbo has of _that_ is the letters stored somewhere dark, untouched for years, flowing plentiful after Thorin had to abruptly return to his kingdom, trickling slower and slower as work consumed them both... Bilbo followed him soon enough, only to arrive into a world that had no desire to let him keep up, and ended up back in the Shire again, Thorin his husband only on paper, really.

The bead Bilbo had once worn proudly in his hair to signify that, smelted and engraved by Thorin himself, now rests with the letters, somewhere at the bottom of this or that drawer in one of Bilbo’s desks, and it has been a long, long time since Bilbo last took it between his fingers, twirling it thoughtfully, unwittingly smoothing out its surface – age has blunted the edges of that hurt, and Bilbo isn’t very fond of wallowing in that anyway, and so he keeps his hair shorter these days, and when a letter does come from Erebor every once in a blue moon (either Balin or Bofur or someone else informing him on the goings-on, never the King himself), he reads it fondly, stores it with the rest, and writes back, his well wishes addressed to all of them in kind. He hopes Thorin knows that – but then again, he might not even be interested in reading those words anymore.

It was a bitter set of consequences that pulled them apart, tugged at the edges of the taut fabric of their union, pulling out string by string until all that was left was a weak, fraying link, not enough to keep them together, and... They never really officially ended things. Simply ended up believing they knew best what was good for the other person, and talked less and less, until they didn’t have a reason to talk at all anymore.

The distance between Erebor and the Shire seems unbridgeable now, even though Bilbo has been encouraged many times to cross it – but no, he is happy here, and Thorin is happy where _he_ is, and that’s that. Bilbo is just glad to know he’s doing alright, and he’d like to think it works both ways.

* * *

The anticipated knock on the door does come, but it is far too early in the morning, and it is no dwarf standing on his doorstep.

“Cousin Saradoc?” Bilbo squints, tying his robe proper, “what can I do for you so early?”

“Oh, it’s a mess, Cousin Bilbo, you have to come help!” Saradoc exclaims, looking rightly haggard – out of all the Brandybucks, Bilbo considers him the nicest, probably, and the feeling seems to go both ways.

“What’s the matter? What do you need my help with? I just put the kettle on, why don’t you come inside?”

“No no, no time for that!” Saradoc cries, looking back over his shoulder as if something is chasing him, “please, you’ve got to come with me. Grandfather Gorbadoc has been arguing with the dwarves all morning, and it’s going nowhere! We need you to talk to them!”

“And what makes you think – honestly!” Bilbo huffs, “just because I associated with dwarves _once,_ doesn’t mean I know how to handle the whole bunch, now does it! They’re rowdy, and rude, but if you offer them enough food, it should keep them quiet for some time, why don’t you tell your Grandfather that and leave me be-”

“No, but you have to come, you have to,” Cousin Saradoc is beginning to sound truly desperate now, “honestly, nobody knows why they didn’t just decide to stay at your place, since it’s that Mister Thorin visiting, I mean it would be only proper, wouldn’t it-”

“Hold on, hold on,” Bilbo sputters, his stomach clenching in a twist that has nothing to do with the fact that he hasn’t even had second breakfast yet, “Thorin is here? The King?”

“Yes, yes!” Saradoc nods furiously, “and a whole lot of others with him! They appeared at Brandy Hall last night, and I couldn’t tell you what’s going on even if I wanted to, but I know trouble brewing when I see it. Please tell me you’ll come?”

Bilbo sighs, very deeply. It is too early in the morning for this, surely. He gazes across the waking hillocks, fog rolling off of them, as if he’ll somehow be able to see Thorin and his convoy at this distance, and recognize what on earth all this commotion is about.

“Alright,” he concedes, a foul, grumpy mood already setting in, “just let me slip into something a bit more presentable.”

If there is one thing that has remained with him ever since his adventure, it is, after all, his curiosity.

The way Saradoc explains the story on their way to Brandy Hall, it ends up making even less sense than it did at the beginning – apparently a large, disheveled and distressed group of dwarves appeared at Brandy Hall at some impossible hour last night after having been seen around the Shire here and there, asking for refuge very politely, but very desperately, and _the lot of them looked like they’ve been on the run from something for a very long time, I’m telling you, Master Bilbo._

Bilbo’s gut twists with worry – Gorbadoc, the current Master of the Hall, accepted the dwarves readily when they offered him significant amounts of money, just like he’s been eager to accept many travelers (and even many of his distant relations) before, but Bilbo can’t help but wonder why they didn’t come to him. It’s not that he feels in any way angry, or left out of the loop, or _nastily shocked that the first time Thorin and him will be seeing each other after all these years is under these circumstances..._ No. It’s just that he’s curious. Very, very curious.

Just like any other place the dwarves linger that isn’t suited to their needs, Brandy Hall is in quite a state – there’s chatter and a ruckus, people hurrying here and there, even some of Bilbo’s more or less distant cousins trying to keep the group’s ponies away from the flowerbeds, and children watching everything with great glee, wide eyes scanning in wonder the dwarves scattered in front of the Hall – Bilbo’s heart clenches at the sight of them, and though he might not recognize individual faces and beards just yet, he recognizes their clothing and armor just fine. They are the royal guard of Erebor, and so many of them in one place can mean one thing, and one thing only – they have an actual royal to keep an eye on.

Despite the knot of agitation somewhere in his chest, Bilbo strides ahead purposefully – with some bitter pride, he reminds himself that he used to be a Prince Consort once, and though he always found the title absolutely ridiculous, at least it taught him not to be afraid of grim-looking dwarven soldiers.

“Master Bilbo! It _is_ you!”

He expected stone cold glares, and was perfectly prepared to repay them in kind, and so he actually stops in his tracks when two of the guards separate from their group and hurry to him – he can sense Cousin Saradoc instinctively backing away, and his other Cousins already beginning to stare, and he sighs, and squints to recognize the two.

“Is it – Fjari! And Gofris, my goodness! I haven’t seen you since... well. Hello!”

Twin intricately braided auburn beards hide their happy grins, and Fjari reaches to pat Bilbo’s shoulder, to which his sister Gofris responds with an offended hiss.

“Oh, I’m not your Consort anymore,” Bilbo laughs, “and you not my guard. It is very good to see you again, though.”

“And you,” Gofris smiles, “we wondered if we might run into you.”

“You did?” Bilbo tries to peek behind them through the front door of Brandy Hall ajar, “and do you mind telling me _what exactly_ you’re all doing here? You’ve already managed to stir up half the Shire!”

“It’s a bit of a long story,” Fjari scowls apologetically, and his sister adds, “we are on our way to Ered Luin.”

“I see, I see. And... the King?” Bilbo asks tentatively, though he tries very hard to look anything but awfully curious.

“He’s, ahh... yes,” Fjari responds clumsily.

“He’s here, yes. Just inside, talking to the Master of the Hall,” Gofris takes over, always the more sensible of the two, watching Bilbo’s face like a hawk for any hint of a reaction.

“I see,” Bilbo says calmly, deciding not to give them any sort of show.

“You see, we’re on our way to-” Fjari begins eagerly, but one jab of his sister’s elbow in his ribs effectively shuts him up.

“It’s a bit of a fool’s errand, really,” she declares resolutely, making it obvious that no matter how foolish it might be, it’s not something Bilbo will readily be learning about. The bitter taste in his mouth certainly doesn’t go away with that.

“Well, I wouldn’t expect any less of Thorin,” he grumbles, and the dwarves cackle in unison, though careful enough not to let anyone overhear them.

“We’ll be out of your hair in no time, promise,” Gofris announces, “we didn’t mean to unsettle the locals.”

“Oh please,” Bilbo chuckles, “this is the most exciting thing that’s happened here since the Lithedays, I assure you. In fact, I wouldn’t worry all that much about _upsetting_ anyone, rather than-”

His voice sort of dies out somewhere halfway out of his throat, because he catches sight of the front door again – Gorbadoc Brandybuck strides out of it, looking incredibly displeased, which in his case means people preemptively clear his path not to get scorched by his glare, or worse, whipped by his cane, and by his side walks Thorin.

Bilbo stands there in a bit of a daze – even at this small distance, he recognizes the troubled tension in his features, the silver threaded through his hair, the proud angle of his nose... The way he carries himself, even the way his furs rest on his shoulders. He’s not wearing his crown, or anything much indicating his status, and in fact, he looks very nearly like he did all those years ago when Bilbo first met him, a traveler rather than a King.

He also looks tired, Bilbo notes, exhausted and bedraggled, and his boots are caked with mud, and his armor and coat are dusty, as if he’s spent too much time sleeping on the ground, and unwittingly perhaps, Bilbo takes a step or two forward, opening his mouth, but no words quite come out.

Not that they have to, because Thorin notices him as well, his step faltering, eyes widening – Bilbo raises his hand in a silly, hesitant wave, and sees Thorin exhale heavily, relief or worry, he can’t quite tell... And then he turns away, devotes himself to the ongoing conversation with Gorbadoc, and the spell is broken – it’s as if Bilbo isn’t even there.

“Oh, you horrible, stubborn, _bullheaded...”_ Bilbo grinds his teeth, and his feet carry him forward on their own accord – he’s forgotten all about the anger, the resentment and the disappointment, but it all comes rushing in now, years of trying to get over it all gone with the wind.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” he barks out, turning many more heads than the one he’s aiming for, “do you mind telling me what on earth you're doing here?!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

He used to despise public spectacles of any kind – then he was more or less forced to get used to them, what with choosing to spend what he thought was going to be the entire rest of his life by the side of an actual King, but then after _that_ went up in the wind, Bilbo happily reverted to his old ways, and has indeed used his treasured ring many, many times in the past couple of years to escape a meddling relative knocking on the door, much less being faced with a crowd of them.

But right now, all caution is frankly forgotten altogether, and he only groans inwardly when he feels all eyes turning on him, and marches on. It is not every day that your estranged spouse turns up out of the blue without announcing themselves, and he might not be handling it very well, but he can't be bothered to care.

“Bilbo,” Thorin says unsteadily, looking around as if he's expecting his numerous entourage to run to his defense.

“Yes. Good to know you still remember my name. A little heads up would have been nice!”

“I didn't think to-”

“Oh, I can attest to _that,_ ” Bilbo scoffs, and even Gorbadoc looks just a teensy bit taken aback with his outburst. “What's going on here, do you mind me asking? Now that the plan to sneak past my door _with an entire group of people_ without me noticing has gone up in the proverbial flames? Honestly, _I_ have not forgotten how loud and overbearing dwarves can be, but all of these other lovely people could have done with a warning.”

For a moment there, the only sound that can be heard is a quiet crunching, as the dwarves' ponies destroy Missus Brandybuck's prized geraniums, entirely unperturbed by the drama afoot.

"Perhaps now is not the best time-" Thorin tries.

"Oh, no, you're absolutely right, it is an atrocious time to do this right now, but you didn't exactly give me a choice, did you, appearing out of thin air," Bilbo is unstoppable, and honestly, it's a wonder he has this much fire in him this early in the morning, without even a bite of a first breakfast in him. Or maybe it's the lightheadedness resulting from that very fact, who knows.

"I wasn't really planning on running into _you,_ believe me," Thorin retorts, and something in the way he says _you_ makes Bilbo's heart clench, a ghost of an ache he remembers resolutely shunning, years ago.

"Well then," he smiles wryly, "perhaps you should have chosen a different path to... wherever you're bloody headed. Or perhaps you have, and your famous map reading skills are to blame for this?"

There is a murmur among the dwarves, and scattered laughter among the braver of his relatives – Thorin _glares_ , powerful enough to scorch lesser beings where they stand, but _that_ stopped working on Bilbo years ago.

" _Uzbade,_ " Gofris clears her throat, addressing Thorin, and Bilbo only notices just now that she's been standing halfway between all this time, a silent mediator, just waiting for an opportune enough moment to prevent a squabble evolving into something worse. She declares something in rapid Khuzdul, and it's been a while since he's heard the language (save for a couple of times muttering swears to himself while baking or gardening, always more potent and satisfying than Westron curses), and Gofris speaks far too quickly for him to translate all of it. _Sir,_ of course, and something about... high time, and spies... no, scouts?

What hasn't diminished, though, is his ability to read in Thorin's face like an open book, and right now, he recognizes worry, and urgency, and very definitely _trouble._

"Yes... oh. Alright, let's move," Thorin appears suddenly thoughtful, but only for a second, before turning to Gorbadoc with his best expression of regal gratitude. "I can't thank you enough for hosting us tonight, sir Brandybuck. I do hope your reward is to your satisfaction."

Bilbo's disgusted huff comes out perhaps a bit louder than intended, and Thorin shoots him a nasty look, but Gorbadoc is nodding happily, of course he is – Thorin has probably greased his palms enough to last him until winter.

"It's been an absolute pleasure," he squawks, trampled flowerbeds and, if Bilbo's experiences are to be taken into consideration, no doubt destroyed plumbing and pillaged pantries, be damned, "do come again."

"Pack up, everyone," Thorin announces loudly, "this place is to be left spotless, do you hear me?"

"How considerate of you," Bilbo mutters, which of course doesn't escape his dear husband.

"A word?" he suggests curtly, motioning inside Brandy Hall, "unless the master of the house objects."

"No objections at all, sir," Gorbadoc is swift to smile, wide and sleazy and fake, and Bilbo makes a mental note to forget to add sugar to the next afternoon tea they share.

He marches inside first, stubbornly refusing to be the one following Thorin, which only results in the esteemed King shutting the door behind them entirely more forcefully than necessary. Bilbo prides himself on only flinching inwardly.

"Could you possibly go five minutes without causing a scene?" Thorin growls, and Bilbo is prepared, oh, he's been prepared for a very long time.

"Five minutes? You haven't seen me in years, _dear,_ how could you possibly know that I haven't spent them in perfect politeness?"

"Oh, I know you far too well for that," Thorin is quick to quip back, "you'd very much like people to think you're the politest hobbit to ever walk the Shire, wouldn't you? Don't forget, you let me see through that a long time ago."

"Well then I suppose I am only what our marriage has made me, husband of mine," Bilbo smiles sweetly, and a flicker of... some emotion crosses Thorin's face, but it is swiftly buried under yet more glaring.

He towers over Bilbo like he's always done, but that has long since ceased intimidating him, or impressing him, or affecting him in any other way beyond simple annoyance.

"So pleased to see you're in good health," Thorin growls.

"I'd say likewise, but you look like you've been through the grinder, back and forth and back again," Bilbo scoffs, and there isn't a hint of sentiment in it. He remembers now where all his rage has been all these years – bubbling right there under the surface, just waiting for Thorin to rekindle it.

"I am only what our marriage has made me," Thorin supplies dryly, and Bilbo opens his mouth to retort just as swiftly and sharply, but words suddenly fail him.

They can hear the commotion from outside, dwarves stomping around and ponies snorting and neighing, the lingering hobbit audience still chatting around, and Bilbo realizes only now how cold the inside of Brandy Hall is. Thorin  _ does  _ look older, it's so much more apparent now, with the opportunity for closer scrutiny – eyes still piercing and razor sharp, the astonishing blue of them even more pronounced by the silver in Thorin's hair and beard. He carries himself proudly still, but Bilbo knows best that those shoulders are so broad only because they must carry such an immense weight.

"Why are you here?" he sighs, and it comes out defeated, weaker than he'd intended.

Thorin measures him like he's still expecting an  _ and furthermore  _ to come, which, alright, Bilbo can't really fault him for.

"I wish I could tell you," he says at last, and it sounds honest enough, but Bilbo knows that  _ properly  _ translated, it actually stands for  _ I wish I didn't run into you at all in the first place. _

"Of course," he nods coolly.

"I've already caused you enough trouble as it is, turning up unannounced."

_ Do you know how much I used to wish for you to turn up unannounced, just knock on my door like you'd done the first time, and declare that you were here to stay? _

But that was then, and this is now.

"Then go," Bilbo mumbles, an unnamed weight suddenly settling in his chest.

"Bilbo-"

"Just go. Go on."

He doesn't give him the space to say anything more, and is the first to walk back out into the sunlight, shielding his eyes against it briefly, not failing to notice the King's entourage shooting him worried looks among packing and mounting their ponies. With a ragged sigh, and without a single look back over his shoulder, he makes his way to Fjari and Gofris, already in their saddles.

"We're sorry for this, truly," Fjari frowns, and Bilbo waves his hand dismissively.

"Don't worry about it. It was lovely to see you again. Do give my regards to everyone else, yes?"

"We will," Gofris smiles a tad somberly, while Fjari doesn't seem satisfied with this quick a parting: "Are you sure you don't want to..."

"Want to do what?" Bilbo laughs, "pack up my things and travel halfway across the world with a bunch of rowdy dwarves again? I've had enough of that to last a lifetime, believe me."

The concern remains in their grimaces, and Bilbo sighs. What a headache.

"I'll be fine, honestly," he reassures them, "you be safe, all of you. And do stop by for tea sometime."

 

And that is truly it. Thorin and him don't exchange anything beyond a short nod and a few customary goodbye words, and then the entire troupe is set into motion, Bilbo standing there alone, even though he's surrounded by nosy relatives, watching alongside everyone else as the children run after the ponies all the way up the hill from Brandy Hall, until the group disappears behind it.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing of all is how  _ little  _ Bilbo feels – there was something, watching them ride away, some sort of momentary longing for a time long past, and he remembers it still, the jolt that sent him dashing halfway across the Shire to catch up all those years ago... But then they're gone, and it is gone as well. That was then, and this is now.

"I say, Cousin, is this how all dwarven marriages go?" prods Gorbadoc, and Bilbo is surprised to find him still standing there, instead of hiding inside and counting his newly acquired wealth.

"There didn't seem to be much warmth at all left between you two," remarks Missus Brandybuck, already standing by her husband's side, perfectly prepared to yell everyone into shape regarding her destroyed flowerbeds, no doubt.

"I wouldn't know," Bilbo replies sternly, "as this is the only dwarven marriage I've ever participated in."

And then he leaves them behind without a single tinge of shame, and walks home at a leisurely pace, and by the time he gets there, the sun has crawled just high enough to remind him that it's almost time for second breakfast, and he hasn't even had his first – and it is only when he starts dicing the onion for his scrambled eggs that he realizes his hands are shaking just a little bit.

The onion might also make him cry just a tad easier than usual this time, but nobody needs to know that, now do they.

 

He's never been the one to wallow in self pity, but then again, hobbits have never liked to wallow in anything much at all – emotions, if they aren't pure joy or a love of food, aren't to be shared freely. Indeed, in the past Bilbo has used his anger, or grief, or even, if he's being completely honest with himself, mild agitation, to plant entire new flowerbeds, or knit himself a sweater or five, or fill his pantry with exquisite baked goods to last him for weeks – after all, his garden still bears marks of the stress remodeling he put it through in the months that Thorin and him negotiated staying apart, through letters only, but no less intensely.

He walks into it now, quiet and still in the shade of his house this early in the day, carrying his bowl of breakfast with him, but eating only as an afterthought – quite out of the blue, he realizes how large the backyard is, too large in fact, for just one person. When there were two of them, it was much nicer, and it doesn't even take much reminiscing to recall exactly how Thorin had looked kneeling by the strawberry shrubs, or chopping wood over there by the shed, or lounging in the grass, warm sunlight slowly lulling him to sleep...

Bilbo shakes his head, displeased with himself really, and plops down on the bench by the wall, finishing his meal with much more grim determination than before. And... damn, yes, he's forgotten to bring his pipe...

That's when he hears it, a crash from the inside, like someone colliding with furniture, and he perks up, listening silently for a moment, but it might as well have been a book sliding off the many overflowing piles in his study... Except that over time – and he firmly dislikes the fact that he's been forced to – he's learned to recognize the presence of people who do not want to make their presence known, and right now, the silence inside is a little _too_ perfect, like the entire house is holding its breath.

His fingers automatically close around the smooth golden ring in the front pocket of his vest, slipping it on a comfortable habit by now, and he enters the house through the porch door ever so quietly, like only hobbits – no, like only hobbits who have snuck their way around a dragon before - can.

Everything appears perfectly peaceful and undisturbed, specks of dust glittering like particles of gold in the sunlight now finally beginning to stream inside, and even Sting still sits comfortably in the umbrella stand in the hall, even though Bilbo had half expected it to glow a subtle blue. He _almost_ starts questioning himself, _daft old paranoid fool_ , but then it's there again, a creak that only the loose floor in the living room being stepped on carelessly could ever produce.

Bilbo picks up the sword soundlessly, and it is then that he realizes how utterly ridiculous he's behaving, dear god – he's just denounced one reminder of his previous adventures, and now he's acting like he's never left the road. A knock over the head would be a mercy.

Alas, the ring is on, and the sword is out... and there is a dwarf standing by the mantelpiece, admiring the decor, and _honestly?!_

"I thought I was being clear enough when I said I didn't want anything more to do with you lot!"

The dwarf demonstrates truly impressive agility, swiveling around and putting one of Bilbo's mother's engraved candlesticks back in its place during that arch, and it doesn't take long for Bilbo to realize that this is no member of the royal entourage – oh, he can't believe he remembers all of this still, but the design of the clothes, the way the beard and hair is braided, even the color of the dwarf's skin, all of it is as far from Ereborean fashion as possible. And Bilbo didn't spend much time inspecting the group earlier today, but he doesn't remember seeing this particular sod among them...

And there are twin daggers – why is it always twin daggers with these people?! They have _over-the-top danger_ written all over them, and Bilbo feels a frustrated moan building at the very sight of them.

"I don't want any trouble," the dwarf announces, "I just need a place to hide."

"With  _ daggers, _ " Bilbo glares.

"I was told hobbits were a comfortable and lazy people, and here you are, brandishing a sword like you've been using it your entire life," the stranger is quick to quip back.

"Hobbits also don't like their homes invaded out of nowhere, and you'd be surprised to know the lengths we're willing to go to to keep that from happening.  _ Leave. _ "

"Have you seen a group of dwarves passing through these parts recently? As in,  _ today  _ recently?" the dwarf seems completely unperturbed by the blade still pointing at their chest, circling the room carefully to get closer to the door,  _ stupid twin daggers, god, it's not like it's the first time Bilbo has seen a dwarven assassin, are you people stupid... _

"Oh, yes, the Ereborean Royal Guard makes for quite the sight, don't you think?" he says calmly, and  _ there,  _ there it is.

The dwarf falters, eyes widening, daggers lowering the faintest bit, and Bilbo finally realizes what his subconscious has been trying to tell him all this time – a  _ lady  _ dwarf assassin.

"You know the King of Erebor?" she asks, ever so cautiously.

"Let's just say I know him when I see him," Bilbo huffs a humorless laugh, "you?"

The change in her posture is sudden and entirely unexpected – her shoulders slump, the blades sliding out of her hands and clattering uselessly on the ground, and to Bilbo's great astonishment, she follows them soon after, turning from a killer poised to strike, to a miserable lump on the floor within seconds.

"Uh," Bilbo manages.

"Are you absolutely  _ sure  _ the King was here?" the dwarf whines.

"I'm... quite sure, yes," Bilbo squints, quickly losing all sense of the situation, "why? Why do you need to know?"

She looks up at him at last, two frankly striking huge amber eyes, and Bilbo first realizes how  _ young  _ she is.

"Well, as I'm due to marry him soon, and I'm not too thrilled about the idea, you can imagine the nature of my interest."

Bilbo drops Sting on his foot.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is here! Where we meet the mysterious OC, and things start getting properly weird for everyone involved. As I'm on a super tight schedule with both work and this fic I haven't been able to respond to all your lovely comments on the first chapter, but rest assured I read them all and they made me all the more eager to keep posting, so a huge thank you to all of you :')


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo makes tea. Nothing like a good tea to soothe the nerves, his mother always used to say.  Bilbo doesn't suppose she's ever had to deal with strange dual-wielding dwarves appearing on her doorstep – or more like barging in when she wasn't around –  and proclaiming they were about to marry her husband, but somehow, he thinks she might have a better grip on the situation than he does.

He isn't all that proud of shrieking  _ What?!  _ at the top of his lungs, usually not one for pathetic outbursts, but fortunately he's managed to rein in his...  _ agitation _ , and also, as a side effect, terrify his unexpected guest enough to retreat and sit quietly on the bench by the dinner table while Bilbo fusses and marches around his kitchen muttering dwarf-related profanities to himself.

But he is nothing if not a good host, and the girl – because she  _ is  _ a girl still, by dwarven standards, probably not older than sixty or seventy – is soon presented with a plate of cookies, albeit a tad angrily, and a steaming cuppa, eying both somewhat suspiciously.

"So," Bilbo glares, "on the run."

"Yes, sir," she mumbles, subdued now.

"From Erebor."

A scowl ripples her soft – again, by dwarven standards – features, like the mere thought of the place makes her insides twist.

"Yes."

"And you're supposed to," Bilbo's throat is a bit dry, the taste of his breakfast returning to him in the least pleasant manner, "marry their King. Tall, dark, scowls a lot..."

A flicker of what might be a hesitant smile quirks her mouth.

"That's him."

"Sweet, merciful Eru," Bilbo sighs, burying his face in his hands, elbows on the table, moaning into his palms: "No wonder he'd hoped he  _ wouldn't run into me.  _ I'm going to  _ kill him. _ "

"Forgive me," she pipes up, somewhat muffled as her mouth is full of cookies, a fact that Bilbo is irrationally proud of, "but  _ how  _ do you know the King again?"

Bilbo inhales to respond, but then he looks at her properly, her clothes so different from the King's entourage, an amalgam of simple patterns and dark colors, designed for functionality rather than beauty, and her tar black mane braided intricately away from her face, tens of precisely knotted locks slithering down her shoulders, adorned with gold... Her tan skin and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and curious, almond-shaped eyes, full lips and a thin scar bisecting her left eyebrow... All of it tells him nothing, and yet everything that he needs to know.

She's unlike any other dwarf he's ever met before, and he's met  _ far too many. _

"What's your name?" he asks, resigned, "and where do you come from? Ered Luin?"

"Yes," she seems a bit taken aback, "my name is Lukh."

"An absolute pleasure to meet you," Bilbo says bitterly, "I'm Bilbo Baggins."

Her eyes widen so much they threaten to pop out of her head, and she reclines away from him in an almost comical show of shock – and he really shouldn't be in the least bit pleased about that, should he.

"You're – oh Mahal. Oh, they told me about you! You were the one who turned the tide of the battle! And you talked to a dragon!  _Okhil Tashfatumul_ _! _ "

Oh, and does Bilbo remember  _ that  _ title. Someone came up with it shortly after the battle, with Thorin and the boys still very nearly on their deathbeds, Bilbo and the senior members of the company acting in their stead, for reconciling the humans and the elves, the dwarves and the  _ other  _ dwarves, took every ounce of resolve and diplomatic skill, and Bilbo, who had mediated many a family gathering involving the Sackville-Bagginses in the past, discovered a secret strength within himself for that sort of thing, and soon became a trusted and important part of the negotiations.  _Okhil Tashfatumul_ _.  _ _ He who ushers peace _ _. _

But that was then, and this is now.

"That was a very long time ago, yes," he chuckles somewhat uneasily.

"But you and the King ended equally long ago, yes?" she inclines her head, her stare entirely too piercing for Bilbo, who shifts in his seat a bit uncomfortably.

"Well, we decided to... stay put in our respective homes a long time ago. But you can imagine my surprise when you came prancing in here, announcing that you were going to marry someone who-"

"Hey, I didn't come  _ prancing in  _ anywhere!" she counters indignantly, crossing her arms firmly, "if I knew where I was barging in, I'd have turned on my heel and ran even further, believe me! Mahal's hammers, this is so embarrassing, for none more than me! I never wanted to marry the King in the first place, but to have to explain that to his former spouse himself, I-"

"Hold on," Bilbo interrupts her quietly, but it captures her attention nevertheless. "Hold  _ on. _ "

"What?" she arches one pierced eyebrow, quite the sight in fact.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't remember signing a contract  _ voiding  _ that marriage," Bilbo says, his cup of tea stuck halfway to his mouth, "and believe me when I say the King is  _ all about  _ his contracts."

"You're not...? But they told me it  _ was  _ void! It's been over five years, and Master Lorekeeper said that-"

"Is that one of the  _ billion  _ different customs no one ever thought to run by me while I was still in Erebor?" Bilbo interrupts her sharply, "five years apart and zip, marriage over?"

She shrugs.

"That's the way I know it. Look, if there is  _ any way  _ you two are still official, does that mean-"

"Officially  _ furious,  _ is what I am!" Bilbo howls, "come on, get up! Let's go!"

" _ Where  _ are we going?" she seems, if anything, amused, and the teensiest bit hopeful.

"Oh, we're going to make  _ sure  _ this marriage is  _ really  _ over."

"Oh. Oh, uh... alright?"

"Come on, you can't be happy about this either, let's go give them a piece of our mind!"

"No, no, I'm furious, of course I am... _And_ you're taking your sword."

"Believe me," Bilbo turns to her from the door, Sting at the ready, his patchwork robe still on, "if there is _any way_ that this can be settled by a duel, you can bet I'll be taking it!"

And he might be _a bit_ too loud, because when he forcefully swings the door open, there is a very terrified dwarf, yes, _another one,_ standing on his doorstep, hand poised to knock.

"What?" Bilbo barks at him, "where is your King?"

Yet another youngster getting needlessly yelled at, he realizes when he pays the newcomer a sliver more of attention, but he's simply too riled up to stop.

"Uh," the dwarf suddenly forgets himself, wide eyes trained on the blade in Bilbo's hands, "as a member of the Royal... that is, the King would like to..."

"My apologies," Bilbo sighs self-consciously, lowering Sting, "I'm just having a terribly impolite day today. Please, do come in, tell me what I can do for you. I'm sure my other visitor-"

But suddenly there is absolutely no sight of Lukh the mysterious stowaway, and Bilbo remembers the fright in her eyes when she talked of the King's group, and something clicks within him.

"...Won't be coming by for quite some time," he finishes more or less smoothly, "come, there's tea and biscuits in the kitchen."

"I really... Well, I was told to hurry back to the King with your response."

Bilbo groans quietly, and then turns around with the politest smile he can muster under current circumstances.

"A response to a question not yet asked," he reminds the dwarf kindly.

"Oh, I... Yes, of course. The King has decided to spend the day at the Prancing Pony Inn in Bree, and would be delighted if you could join him for lunch. There are certain things of a... personal... nature he wishes to discuss with you."

"Oh, yes," Bilbo sifts through grit teeth, though on the outside, he appears to be amicably smiling still, "there are certain things of a _personal nature_ I wish to discuss with him as well. You may tell your King I'll find my way there around noon."

The dwarf stands there stock still for a moment, as if he didn't quite expect it to go so smoothly, and frankly, Bilbo is surprised at himself as well. It is only when he watches the guard scurry away down the lane, intently trying to look like he knows _exactly_ which way he came from, and didn't lose his way at all, that Bilbo realizes how hard his heart is beating.

Well, this is quite the pickle he's gotten himself into, isn't it.

"Thank you," Lukh reappears after he closes the door, nervously fiddling with – does she have some sort of obsessive fondness for touching other people's things?!

"You're welcome," Bilbo grunts, snatching his pipe out of her grasp, which makes her yelp, as if she's only just realized she's been holding it.

"Why didn't you give me up?" she asks genuinely curiously.

"Well," Bilbo sighs, Sting clattering back in its rightful place in the cane stand, "let's just say that if I see any way I can make Thorin's life a bit more troublesome right now, I'm all in."

She laughs, visibly amused, but what she asks next, just so happens to send a chill up Bilbo's spine.

"Is this how marriages end up, eventually? Bothering each other to death?"

"Apparently it is for me," he opts for a diplomatic, emotionless answer right now. "So? Are you going to go with me, or will you stay here and plunder my pantry some more?"

"No, I think I'll take my chances outrunning them," Lukh smiles, "make it to Ered Luin before them."

"And I guess that would spell even  _ more  _ trouble for Thorin?" Bilbo quirks one eyebrow.

"Me returning and telling my father I refuse to marry into Erebor, and that they treated me so awful I just had to run away?" Lukh grins, "I think so."

Bilbo's heart skips a beat.

"Now, hold on, I'm sure that didn't exactly happen, now, did it?"

"Whose side are you on?" she pouts.

" _ Nobody's  _ side!" Bilbo exclaims, "Yavanna preserve me before I start taking  _ sides  _ again! Go, do whatever you please. But I'm  _ certain  _ Erebor is not to be foul mouthed to - _ who  _ is your father again?"

"Úri Firebeard," she sighs dramatically, "the rightful King of Ered Luin."

And before Bilbo can control his gaping mouth, she snatches one last cookie, and pats his shoulder so strongly he almost topples over.

"Thank you for your hospitality! Sorry for barging in."

And with that, she is out of his door and away, before he can so much as peep a word of protest.

 

But no, all of this is beyond him, truly.  _ Not anymore,  _ he tells himself.  _ That was then, and this is now. _

Why, then, does he spend so much time picking out an agreeable ascot/waistcoat/overcoat combo to wear when he marches up to Thorin and speaks his mind?

_ Is this how all marriages end up? _

Bilbo watches himself in the mirror, the bags under his eyes more pronounced, an inevitable gray creeping into his hair here and there, and he thinks,  _ this is not marriage. _

What he  _ does  _ remember of their marriage, is days spent trying to carve out a bit of alone time for each other, falling into bed together at the end of it and falling asleep immediately when the restoration was the hardest... Laughter, and disagreements, and making up, and laughter again. A sense of security, a sense of  _ yes, this is where I'm supposed to be, and it's difficult, but that's alright, because we're tackling it together. _

Perhaps they were both equally at fault, for making promises to each other that they couldn't keep in the end, but Bilbo couldn't for the life of him recall the exact events that led to them never speaking anymore. Oh, he stores the letters, and he stores the beads and bracelets he'd received from Thorin over the years, because, well, nostalgia is an intrinsic part of all this, and secondly, because he just doesn't think it would be right.

But looking at it – because he  _ has  _ spent  _ some  _ time looking at it all, that's probably inevitable - tells him nothing, only reminds him of the emotions that are no longer there. Are they? What's left right now, is a strange, slow sort of bitterness, and Bilbo is incapable of recognizing how he feels about Thorin suddenly appearing back in his life, however long that might be for. Things are suddenly more in focus, and yet more difficult to comprehend than ever before.

And then there's stomping his way across the Shire to Bree, and slapping someone in the face the second you see them, and Bilbo supposes it doesn't get any more straightforward than that. Anger is, after all, a vicious but powerful motivator, and honestly, he tells himself as he glares into Thorin's eyes, wide with shock, this is long overdue. It's one thing writing letters, and a whole another, actually dealing with all of it face to face.

The only reason he isn't jumped by all of the King's guards at once, is the King himself raising one hand and stopping them, and Bilbo straightens out his waistcoat with a firm huff, crossing his arms.

"I suppose I deserved that," Thorin admits, raising his hand to touch his cheek, even though Bilbo is quite certain he couldn't have caused much more damage than, say, a butterfly landing in the same spot.

"I suppose you did," he growls, and thinks,  _ oh, this will be fun. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the wtf factor is kind of off the charts right now, but look, all of this is just me realizing my own fanservice-y ideas and mostly just hoping you guys will decide to go along for the ride :'D Your astonished comments on the previous chapter were amazingly amusing, thank you! :D We also meet the new OC properly, I promise I'm having quite a lot of fun NOT fridging her. Stay tuned!


	4. Chapter 4

"Sit?" Thorin beckons him, enough wherewithal about him to sound at least a bit timid, and Bilbo sneers at that, but obliges anyway, crossing his arms firmly and _glaring._

"I'm glad you decided to come," Thorin sighs, his entourage retreating at the slightest gesture of his hand.

The inn is nigh empty, Bilbo registers, and he wonders if poor Mister Tanner the innkeeper is going to blame him for this – oh, who is he kidding, it's always a hissed _Baggins_ whenever dwarves are involved in and around the Shire these days.

"I'm glad you decided _not_ to tell me that all it would take for our marriage to become void is five years of frosty silence."

"I didn't – _how_ do you know about that?" Thorin squints, and Bilbo remembers his surprise visitor yet again, mentally kicking himself for always letting his mouth run.

"Beside the point!" he opts for offense, "I can't  _ believe  _ that you didn't tell me, you great big oaf! That nobody did! Among all those well wishes and amusing little stories from Erebor, no one ever thought to mention,  _ oh, by the by, your marriage is going to become legally nonexistent in a couple of weeks! _ "

Thorin can be seen opening his mouth, poised to respond bitterly, but then he refrains, as if all fight has been stolen from him. He looks even more tired than earlier today, but Bilbo's sympathy has its limits.

"What have you got to say for yourself?" he demands sharply, and it's obvious that Thorin had rather had this discussion anywhere else, away from people, or not at all, but Bilbo will be damned before he does him any favors. He can very well see Fjari and Gofris exchanging the occasional worried glance, but he doesn't care for that either. Damn _all_ dwarves, damn them, with their _contracts,_ and _customs,_ and idiotic thick heads...

"I suppose I didn't handle it... ideally," Thorin averts his gaze, and Bilbo notices just now the pile of papers on the desk in front of him.

"You didn't handle it _at all_ , that's the problem," he snipes back, "so... what? Do you want my fancy marriage bead back? A signature somewhere, confirming that I am no longer allowed to call you husband, no matter how much irony I put in it? _When_ were you planning on telling me all this?!"

Silence reigns, and Bilbo tastes satisfaction, but it's distorted by the anger, and the disappointment, so he can't even really savor it. And so he attempts to chase it away by grabbing the nearest poppy seed bun and munching on it furiously – a hobbit forced to skip second breakfast is _not_ to be trifled with!

Thorin's guard are all professionals, so they hardly bat an eyelash, but Bilbo has long since learned to see past the stone expressions of dwarves – they are displeased with him, but still torn between supporting their King, and letting show just how right Bilbo is.

The King in question, though, sits there stricken, Bilbo's words having left more of an impact than any feeble slap ever could.

"I think we should speak in private," he sighs.

"Long overdue," Bilbo agrees sternly, and before he knows it, the room begins to clear, until they're left completely alone, an unsettling feeling to say the least, considering the vast hall is usually filled with tens of people and loud chatter. Mister Tanner is going to need _so many_ homemade pies to get over this.

"Bilbo," Thorin starts, but is stopped by Bilbo raising his hand this time – oh, so it seems to work still, after all these years.

"Save the speeches. Just admit you made a mistake, and explain what is going to happen next. Where do I need to sign to confirm that you're a clod?"

"I was going to tell you," Thorin mutters, avoiding Bilbo's glare, fiddling with the tankard on the table in front of him, turning it this way and that, "I thought perhaps on my way back..."

"On your way _back?!_ " Bilbo exclaims, " _after_ you'll have married someone else?!"

Thorin stares at him mutely for a moment, eyes narrowing, before he sighs again, slumping in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Who wrote to you to tell you about this?" he demands, but meekly, "was it Bofur? Did Fjari, or Gofris, before we left...?"

"I cannot believe you," Bilbo says coldly, strangely determined to milk this missing dwarf lady situation for all its worth. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out?"

"I'm _sorry,_ Bilbo," Thorin sounds honest, if reluctant, "I wish all of this had gone differently, I do, but you have to understand, if I had _a sliver_ of a choice, I would have chosen to tell you, I... I was bound, still _am,_ by law, and tradition, and if I don't adhere to that right now..."

"Funny," Bilbo chuckles dryly, "when I was marrying you, they told me that I was marrying all of dwarven tradition as well. Or something along those lines, can't say I remember very well, there was a lot of jabber I simply elected to ignore, you see. I was just happy to be marrying you at all, that's all I know."

The ache in Thorin's eyes is palpable, even though they refuse to focus Bilbo's way, yet again. If he squints, Bilbo can pretend they're in one of the royal chambers again, the ones closest to the gardens, Bilbo's favorite, golden sunlight warming cold stone and their backs both, as they spent hours bent over official paperwork together, chatting about little else, but still feeling a closeness Bilbo barely remembers the comfort of...

"Somehow now that's not enough for you to tell me?" he says earnestly, "even though it affects me so personally?"

"I'm sorry," Thorin repeats, incapable of anything more eloquent, "I really do wish it had happened differently."

"Don't we all," Bilbo grumbles, and neither of them need look at the other to know full well that they're only half talking about the most recent events.

The silence  _ now  _ is heavy and unpleasant, as they both attempt to avoid looking in each other's eyes, but still appear as polite as possible – it's like dining with the Sackville-Bagginses, for crying out loud, and could all the words they  _ never  _ said really have caused all... this? Evidently.

"Let me make it easier on us both," Bilbo pushes _those_ words out with greater difficulty than he'd expected, "our marriage has been over for a while now, let's face it. If you need my signature to that effect on anything, then give me it now, so we can both be on our way. But I'm guessing since you were going to tell me _after_ you'd gone off to elope with someone else, it isn't really required?"

Thorin gapes silently, something almost akin to sadness in his eyes for a brief second, until it is replaced by steely determination, the likes of which Bilbo used to admire before – now, it helps _him_ move past sadness as well, and right back into annoyed, and angry.

"Here," Thorin growls, sliding a thick folded paper across the desk to Bilbo, who glares still as he accepts it, stuffing his face with more baked goods, if only to keep from insulting Thorin further, for now.

"What is this?" he demands, muffled.

"You don't have to sign anything," Thorin leans back in his chair, his voice dull, "I just thought you might want to take a look. The five-year clause is included there."

Bilbo recognizes it the second he unfolds it, and the food suddenly tastes very bitter in his mouth, he doesn't even need to look to the end of it to see his crooked signature alongside Thorin's elegant one – he does anyway.

And oh, he remembers it all, though in a bit of a blur, the swelling music and his own swelling heart, and the absolute joy of finally getting what they both wanted, the jewelry heavy in his hair and around his wrists and ankles, and the way his stomach twisted and turned because he hadn't eaten anything all day, nerves to be blamed...

And how all of it had ceased to matter the second he saw Thorin waiting for him, the second he saw the look of adoration in his eyes, reassuring him that yes, this really was what they both wanted and had worked so hard for.

They signed the marriage contract in a thrilling flurry of cheers and loud drumming, laughter and kisses, and there never really  _ was  _ any time to  _ read  _ the damn thing. Even though, now that he remembers, various people might have brought it up to him at some point after the actual wedding, but he never paid it much mind, for what treachery could a contract of  _ love  _ possibly contain, no?

And then he remembers.

"Well,  _ dear heart, _ " he smiles shortly, joylessly, "I'm afraid we're going to need a lawyer."

Thorin blinks, once.

"Why?"

"Because," Bilbo jabs his finger into the paper, " _ this  _ is not the only contract sealing our marriage that we signed, back in the day."

Thorin inclines his head, baffled.

"Don't you remember?" Bilbo smirks sourly, "we finally made it to the Shire, you really liked that one Bracegirdle wedding we went to..."

"Oh...  _ oh, _ " Thorin  _ does  _ recall, and it's not a pretty sight. "We thought we would..."

"That's right. Do you agree now that we need a lawyer? I do, at any rate, if only to ensure I get out fine on the other side if I suddenly decide to bludgeon you for all the trouble you've brought with you."

Thorin is speechless for a good minute, which is always an achievement, and glaring matches, Bilbo definitely doesn't remember  _ that.  _ What a delight.

"I wasn't aware hobbits had lawyers," Thorin says at last, gruffly.

"Oh, please!" Bilbo laughs, "have  _ you  _ ever tried marrying a Proudfoot to his third Bracegirdle cousin, and settle the inevitable feud  _ without  _ bloodshed? Lawyers are an absolute necessity."

 

This particular one, by the name of Fillibald  Whitfoot , is very old, and very unhappy to be fetched just when he was about to have his lunch – but as Bilbo is extremely cross about the whole affair as well, being forced to eat away from home and all, they find common ground sharing a lunch served by the extremely cross Mister Tanner the in n keeper, who also refuses to keep guests out of his establishment a minute longer, and thus discussion unfolds mingled with many  _ other  _ discussions.

Bilbo and Thorin both smoke their respective pipes and try not to scowl in each other's direction too much, and Mister  Whitfoot leafs through the massive book of records he – or, more accurately, his poor assistant – has hauled here, and mutters to himself, a lot of  _ I see' _ s and  _ Hmm extraordinary _ 's, none of them particularly reassuring.

The news of Bilbo's little gathering has already flown around the Shire, of course, and he isn't even surprised to see more or less distant relatives trailing into the inn at different points in time, people who wouldn't be seen dead so far from their homes any other time. But no hobbit can resist the temptation of gossip.

"Yes? Something on your mind?" he asks sourly, refusing to overlook Thorin's occasional grumbling any longer, deriving particular satisfaction from seeing him look ashamed for just a fraction of a second – seems he's forgotten all about hobbit hearing, among other things.

"Oh, I was just _marveling_ at the nature of your people, yet again," Thorin sighs, casting the filling room a withering look, "I must admit I'd forgotten that personal business means _everyone's_ business in the Shire."

"Well you must forgive _my people_ for misinterpreting the situation," Bilbo retorts bitterly, "you see when a large group of rowdy dwarves comes stomping on everyone's flowerbeds, it's a tad difficult to ignore the spectacle. Hardly anyone would expect to discover motivations of a _personal_ nature behind all that."

"If it were my choice-"

"Oh, _please,_ " Bilbo groans, paying no mind to Mister Whitfoot's displeased tut-tutting, "if it indeed were your choice, you never would have left Erebor in the first place, I'm sure. It's not exactly like you ever particularly excelled at dealing with matters of _personal nature_ head on."

"That's not fair! I told you already that the tradition of my people-"

"Oh, _blast_ the tradition of your people, Thorin, honestly!" Bilbo exclaims, fully aware that more than a couple pairs of eyes are trailed on the two of them from around the inn, "what good has it ever done either of us?"

Thorin leans forth, a truly stormy look in his eyes, the likes of which he saves for when he's properly riled up, Bilbo remembers that much.

"You have no idea what I had to put the crown through-"

"Put the _crown_ through?! How about what you're putting _me_ through?! But I suppose that's to be expected..."

And it sort of unravels from there, and perhaps this is why they decided to only write letters to each other, and then not even that. Bilbo does remember arguments from when they were still together, but they were always good-natured squabbles, usually settled with one or both of them deciding they enjoyed the company and intimacy far more than the actual arguing... Or perhaps he's misremembering that as well.

Either way, this is years and years of pent up frustration finally getting enough room to be unleashed in full, and Bilbo is probably going to have to spend the rest of his life paying his dues to the poor innkeeper. But right now, he's more interested in pacing angrily and spewing profanities, and it's only cut short when a tentative knock on the door interrupts Bilbo's listing of all the things Thorin has ever mucked up in their marriage, and in come Fjari and Gofris, without so much as announcing themselves, the reason for which becomes obvious when Bilbo recognizes the squirming and struggling dwarf in their hold as Lukh, the mysterious runaway/burglar/probably princess.

"Found her!" Fjari announces victoriously, though Thorin looks anything but thrilled about the fact, Bilbo notices.

"Oh, good grief."

"Finally," Thorin exhales.

"We should go," Gofris suggests, "oh, Bilbo. Hello. You're here."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" Lukh exclaims, and then, to Bilbo's horror, turns to _him,_ "tell them!"

"You two know each other?" Fjari half jokes.

"It doesn't matter," Thorin decides resolutely, "Fjari, get everyone to start packing, we're leaving within the hour."

"Now, _hold on_ ," Bilbo spits, "this is hardly resolved-"

"I'm sorry, Bilbo, but the matters at hand-"

"The _ma_ _tters_ _at hand_ demand to be dealt with, Thorin, or I swear on my grandmother's jewels – yes, Mister Whitfoot?"

"If you would just look at this little footnote here, Master Baggins..."

"Oh,  _ tashfat! _ "

That's Lukh, and before any of them are capable of reacting, she extracts a small dagger out of who knows where, and has it pressed to Gofris' throat seemingly in the blink of an eye.

The now sizeable company in the inn grows completely silent, only Bilbo groaning in absolute exasperation. This day is turning out just swell.

" _ What  _ on earth are you doing?" he demands, but there is a determination in her eyes that he only vaguely recalls ever feeling – she's young, and brash, and the idea of conforming to what the fates have in store for her terrifies her, it's obvious.

"I'm  _ not  _ going to marry him!" she states, her voice only wavering a little bit, "nobody can make me!"

"And nobody  _ should  _ make you, but do you think the best course of action is-"

Apparently summoning all the rest of Thorin's guard inside the already somewhat cramped room, to surround Lukh and Gofris, brandishing their weapons out in the open and all...

"Oh, good grief," Bilbo's lifeforce seems to leave him all at once.

"Detain her," Thorin orders wearily.

"Don't come anywhere near me!" Lukh threatens, Gofris gasping as the knife turns at a more dangerous angle to her throat.

"Master Baggins, if I could divert your attention to this particular part of the contract..."

"If you touch a hair on my sister's head I'm going to kill you!"

"Fjari, _stand down._ The last thing anyone wants is a bloodshed-"

"Well, Cousin Bilbo, if this is what comes of marrying into dwarven families..."

"Alright, that's _enough!_ "

Bilbo is somewhat surprised to realize that last shout actually came from him, but then again, of course it has. This has gotten properly _awful._

"Honestly, the lot of you!" he huffs, using his spiteful energy while it lasts, "I don't know if you're all faint of sight, but you are _not_ in a mountain anymore! This is not how we settle disputes here! _You put your axe down Fjari_ _Longbeard_ _,_ before I cram it somewhere very uncomfortable myself! The same goes for all the rest of you. I'm serious. You had better remember how to _behave,_ because I won't suffer this kind of _rudeness_ a second longer. And _you_ , Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, don't think I don't see you sniggering back there! Get a good eyeful of this atrocity now, because I can promise you it will never repeat itself on _my_ watch. Now, wherever you are, sheathe your weapons and _sit down._ "

And to his amazement, they do. He's forgotten all about this, about how difficult it was, adopting a commanding presence among dwarves who tended to tower over him in both stature and volume, but yelling hobbits are a sight so rare they give even dwarves pause.

"Good, now," he huffs, like a mother addressing her misbehaving offspring, "if we could settle this like adults, that would be fantastic."

"I'm sorry, Bilbo," Thorin starts meekly, but all the sight of him all subdued manages to do is make Bilbo even more annoyed.

"I know that, and yet," he scorches Thorin with one of his best glares, "evidently not sorry enough not to put me through this entire charade. To tell you the truth – _Mister_ _Whitfoot_ _,_ now really isn't the best time!"

The lawyer merely quirks one eyebrow, having physically and continuously _poked_ at Bilbo for the past couple of minutes, and looks entirely unperturbed by what's happening around them.

"It's as I thought," he states, jabbing one crooked finger into the middle of some incomprehensible paragraph in that book of his, "I don't know about dwarven law, and I'd certainly like to take a closer look at _that_ side of the deal, but as far as our customs are concerned, you two are still married."

The gasp from the resident dwarves is telling enough, and Bilbo can hear his heartbeat far too loudly. Thorin looks, if anything, stricken.

"Of course," Bilbo nods curtly, "of course we are."

And then the world turns upside down, and his very last thought before he is knocked out proper, is the hope that the first face he sees when he comes to is Thorin, because he is  _ so  _ not done shouting.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, more craziness! Hobbit lawyers are definitely a thing, come on. And Bilbo shouting all dem dwarves into submission was a lot of fun to write. Yet again, thank you, all of you, so much for the lovely feedback, I'm so glad you guys are enjoying the fic, it makes me a bit more assured in where it's headed :D


	5. Chapter 5

The light is almost overwhelming in its intensity, and there's a faint observation at the back of his mind, _who would have thought this much of it could ever get inside a mountain._ The stone walkway is cold underneath his feet, but he marches on, the weight of all the jewels and the cloak, the mithril shirt and Sting strapped to his side, a mere afterthought. None of it really matters.

His heart swells when he sees the figure in the pillar of glow ahead, and it's all he needs concentrate on – he knows the depths below him are unimaginable, the crowd of thousands, but he can't see any faces, doesn't feel any more fear.

Thorin is smiling at him, or at least Bilbo thinks he is – it's still a bit difficult to see from this far off. Thorin raises his hand, beckoning him closer, and Bilbo speeds up, the echo of his footsteps carrying throughout the massive hall.

But Thorin's shadow lengthens, and Bilbo can see the crown sparkling on his head, but he cannot make out the features of his face, not anymore... He breaks into a run.

He calls out Thorin's name, but no sound comes out. Bilbo is sprinting now, jewels clanking and Sting clattering uselessly, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get a step closer to Thorin, and the light is fading, slowly but surely, as if someone is snuffing out candle by candle, and Thorin opens his mouth, calling after him...

Then the darkness is absolute, the emptiness of the mountain weighing down on Bilbo's entire being, and he trips, trips and falls, somewhere pitch black and freezing and dangerous-

 

He comes to with a gasp, and the light is back in full force – it takes him a moment to recognize the subtle differences, though. Actual sunlight, and the familiar scent of his fresh linen, and... ah, right, _home._

For a blissful moment, everything is alright, his bed warm, his problems nonexistent – and then he remembers, and by the time he reluctantly rolls out of bed, his head is pounding dully.

He recalls it as if it were yesterday, dwarves in his home for the first time, and waking up in the morning and hoping with all his might they'd already gone – he feels the same way right now, Yavanna forgive him, and for a moment or two, he is even allowed to pretend like he's on his own, everything blissfully quiet.

But then he hears the conversation from the kitchen, and he momentarily ponders slipping on the ring in his pocket and leaving for somewhere very, very far away. _Dwarves._ What a nuisance.

"Good morning!"

He is greeted rather enthusiastically, a sentiment he can hardly reciprocate.

"Hello. I see you've already helped yourselves to my cookies. Fjari, weapons _off_ the table."

The younger of the siblings stops quite virtually polishing his axe, putting it away shamefully as his sister scoffs at him, before turning to Bilbo.

"Just a precaution,"she shrugs, and the third member of the merry little gathering squirms uncomfortably.

"Is that really necessary?" Bilbo groans, rubbing his eyes, more exasperation than tiredness, and turns to Lukh, "are you alright?"

"This was _your_ idea," the youngest dwarf utters curtly, sneering at Gofris as she slaps her hand away reaching for a cookie.

"That's... true," Bilbo sighs, wedging himself in between his former guards, the reality of his situation hitting him in full. "What was I thinking?"

Prone to fainting to get himself out of trouble, that's what his mother always used to call him, and he's always resented it, too – but evidently not even a year-long quest that involved chatting with a dragon and culminated with marrying a King, could have prepared him for _everything_ life would yet throw at him.

After _that_ little embarrassing showcase yesterday, it turned out that he wasn't quite done yelling people into submission yet, which resulted in Thorin's entire trip getting postponed, another day at least, and Bilbo claiming his runaway almost-bride as a bargaining chip of sorts. _That,_ Lukh agreed with rather swiftly, because it meant _not_ being forced to marry a bit longer – Thorin was more reluctant, Bilbo's ' _She was my guest first, and until this is resolved, she will be treated as such'_ met with his only demand in this matter, personified by the two rowdy dwarves keeping an eye on Lukh at Bilbo's table at the moment.

And honestly, just this weekend Bilbo's biggest worry consisted of planting the tomatoes in time, and not burning the mince pies.

And then of course there is the business with the esteemed Mister Slkdhgdhg, who is coming over for tea and expects an answer to a question Bilbo had rarely asked himself before, and is now faced with far too intimately – do Thorin and him wish to terminate their marriage by the laws of the Shire as well?

As if things weren't complicated enough already.

Bilbo wishes it were as simple as shouting Thorin off and never having to deal with him again, but he's a fool for forgetting that things are rarely as simple as that where marriages, and especially marriages involving hobbit customs, are involved. He was always on the observer side of things, and never actually planned on going through the whole hassle of eloping himself, the series of gifts, the letters, the dancing and the flowers...

But then of course Thorin looked so lovely with primroses in his hair, and Bilbo had always had a particular weakness.

"Right then," he sighs resolutely, piling scones on his plate along a generous portion of clotted cream, strictly ignoring the dwarves' longing looks, "when is the King coming over?"

"Who knows," sighs Gofris, "there was even talk of sending an envoy ahead to explain the delay, but as you can imagine, _some things_ -" a pointed glare towards Lukh, who is equally pointedly glaring out of the window, ignoring everyone, "would be a tad difficult to explain."

"You don't say," Bilbo sighs, "do either of you feel like telling me what on earth Thorin was thinking?"

Gofris and Fjari exchange an obviously uncomfortable glance, neither of them too adept at withstanding Bilbo's demanding stare.

"He didn't want this," Gofris says at last, meeting with Lukh's derisive scoff, "if he'd had any choice in the matter, he never would have-"

"You know, I keep hearing that a lot," Bilbo interrupts her curtly, "and yet he _did._ He was perfectly prepared to marry someone else and not tell me about it until _after_ -"

"No, you don't understand, he was forced to-"

"Fjari, _enough,_ " Gofris shuts her brother down surprisingly sharply, and Bilbo's eyes widen.

"Forced to do _what_?" he demands.

"Yes, forced to do what?" Lukh pipes up.

The siblings exchange a number of telling looks, seemingly leading an entire conversation like that, Fjari's _perhaps we should?,_ met with Gofris' _keep your mouth shut,_ until she sighs heavily at last.

"This is something you should really ask the King about," she notes, and Bilbo rolls his eyes.

"Helpful," he grumbles.

 

Unable to wring any more information out of either of them, Bilbo gives all of them jobs instead – there is wood to be chopped, always, and earth to be tilled for the tomatoes, and bricks to be carried from the back yard to the garden (they might even stick around long enough to help him build the new shed, if he's lucky, though that is of course a purely operative term...), and Bilbo would never admit it out loud, but it feels somewhat nice, not having to do everything by himself. Having company.

Catching a glimpse of Lukh's dark mane in the hallway and mistaking her for Thorin several times, his heart jumping each and every one of them, now that is not so nice, but there's only so much he can do about _that,_ now, isn't there.

He takes his elevensies sitting with his feet propped up and watching three young dwarves squabble over who gets to handle the shovel and who will be stuck on wheelbarrow duty, and before he knows it, he's making lunch for four instead of one, and it's almost amicable, almost pleasing, until the inevitable knock on the door comes.

 

For a second, Bilbo stands there frozen, because the image of Thorin on his doorstep from all those years ago overlaps with the Thorin of here and now, and the emotions are momentarily inevitable – he is alone, and noticeably dressed down, simple colors and almost reasonably few layers, as if he still remembers that late Hobbiton springs are a tad different from springs inside mountains. For the blink of an eye, right after Bilbo opens the door, his face is unguarded, his gaze unsteady and worried, anxious even.

"Afternoon," Bilbo greets him, his voice deciding not to betray him for once, steady and emotionless, and a hardness swiftly returns to Thorin's eyes, like a wall he erects to protect himself – Bilbo knows, because he calls on that same protection, steadying himself.

"Hello," Thorin nods, "is Mister Whitfoot..."

"Not here just yet," Bilbo shakes his head, stepping aside, "come in, I'll put the kettle on."

It is impossible not to watch Thorin as he does indeed enter the smial, and equally impossible not to feel a tad nauseous about it – it's been years, and he used to _fit_ here, in a manner of speaking, became a part of Bilbo's home, a welcome sight... Only for all of it to gain the bitter tinge of an unwelcome memory, Bilbo managing to convince himself, somehow, that far too many abandoned rooms, the perpetual silence, and the empty bed in the mornings, was what he's always wanted anyway.

He was a bachelor and a hermit long before he met Thorin, and would remain as such long after him.

“You've redecorated,” Thorin notes, and Bilbo doesn't fail to notice the way he stops by the pictures of his parents in the hallway – used to do that at least once a day, out of respect.

“Have I?” Bilbo ushers him on, “perhaps a little.”

Thorin watches his surroundings thoughtfully, not a hint of emotion on his eyes, and Bilbo is somewhat glad of it – this is bizarre enough as it is, no need to add unnecessary tension to the mix. Besides, he senses the same reluctance he feels, emanating from Thorin as well, after yesterday's shouting match – as if both of them are worried a single wrong word might set them off anew.

“Where are Fjari and Gofris?” Thorin demands, and Bilbo frowns at him, trying to figure out if he left Lukh out by accident.

“ _All three of them_ are in the garden, I gave them a job to do, they would have killed each other otherwise.”

“Hmm. Have you fixed the plumbing?” Thorin continues his mindless attempt at small talk as they enter the kitchen, Bilbo impossibly relieved that all the younger dwarves really _are_ still in the garden.

“It's been five years,” he replies curtly, “I've fixed it. How's the plumbing in Erebor? Leaky as ever?”

Thorin spares him a nasty look, and Bilbo chuckles to himself, going about cleaning the table, deriving particular satisfaction from the idea of Thorin forced to stand there awkwardly and deal with his blasted dwarven height in relation to the chandelier in the center of the room.

“Do you need help with that?” Thorin asks, to Bilbo's surprise, but before he can formulate a snide comment, he receives one, “oh, what am I thinking, you like to do all the chores yourself and then complain I never help.”

“Astonishing,” Bilbo scoffs, setting down his washed plate a bit too hard, “I've blissfully forgotten how truly annoying you're capable of being. See _that_ is the one reason I never wanted to do the dishes with you.”

“You'd be forced to give up your household martyr status?”

“I'd be forced to listen to your constant _nagging._ ”

“I swear to Mahal, you are just as-”

Bilbo already hears the beginnings of _insufferable,_ but also another sound alongside that, like a shout, surprise with a bit of horror, coming from outside.

“I thought you said they were gardening?” Thorin quirks an eyebrow.

“I suppose you can just as well beat someone to death with a trowel, if you're crafty,” Bilbo retorts, remembering, with no small pang of horror, Lukh's dagger on Gofris' throat yesterday.

He marches out resolutely, Thorin following him closely, only to discover the three youngsters... _what_ is it that they're doing?!

“Cut it out!” Bilbo hollers, “not so close to my greenhouse!”

Gofris and Lukh spring apart, having been almost locked in what looked like a very aggressive fighting stance of some sort, and Fjari looks disappointed, proclaiming: “They were only play fighting. _She_ claimed that she was better at hand to hand combat than my sister, and...”

At that point, they all seem to notice the presence of Thorin as well, and all their almost childlike cheer dissipates, the siblings regaining their composure and hurrying to Thorin's side, while Lukh retreats instead, reluctant to come anywhere near them, the ease previously gracing her face now replaced with suspicion yet again.

“Well then,” Bilbo turns to Thorin, who for his part seems entirely lost in thought, “what a lovely afternoon. I'd prefer it if all of you just stayed out here while I prepare tea for Mister Whitfoot.”

And by some miracle, they do, and Bilbo is wisely left to his own devices, muttering under his breath as he sets the kettle to boil and brings out even more cookies... This could all be almost normal, just another visit from Erebor, from his _friends,_ from people he'd actually welcome seeing, with nothing but a plundered pantry to sigh over at the end of it... But no, Bilbo is stuck with _this_ instead, and it isn't until the esteemed lawyer is sat in his best armchair, leafing through the book in his lap, even thicker than the last time it seems, that Bilbo truly realizes what all of this is about, and time is suddenly running too fast.

“It is as I had predicted,” Mister Whitfoot explains painfully slowly, “your marriage, unusual as it is, was sealed by the Thane's mark, and thus will be forever recorded in the Shire registry. Terminations of these bonds are highly unlikely, unheard of even, and I would advise you to-”

“Just tell us what we need to do,” Bilbo cuts in, somewhat surprised at his own determination, and that might have been momentary uncertainty in Thorin's eyes, who knows.

“If you are absolutely sure,” Mister Whitfoot sighs heavily, and Bilbo doesn't feel like it, but he looks Thorin in the eye still.

“Well?” he demands.

Thorin sits upright, large hands on his knees, holding Bilbo's gaze steadily, and there was a time when they sat together in that armchair the lawyer is occupying now, and it was entirely too small for two, but they made do, and Thorin sang him old dwarven tunes, warm and deep like the heart of the mountain itself, and they waited for the fire to die down before retreating to bed...

“Thorin...” Bilbo breathes out, a sharp something suddenly bothering his throat.

“I will do whatever it takes to honor the traditions of your people,” Thorin says firmly, unwavering, and he is speaking to Mister Whitfoot more than he is speaking to Bilbo.

Bilbo chalks the sudden dull weight in his chest up to the heavy breakfast.

“...Very well,” the lawyer confirms slowly, “if you would be so kind as to provide the dwarven contract sealing the union...”

“Oh. Yes. That. I'm afraid we don't have that,” Bilbo notes, “do we?”

“No,” Thorin shakes his head, “but if you so desire, Master Lorekeeper, I can arrange for a raven to be sent back to Erebor to fetch it...”

“Just professional curiosity,” Mister Whitfoot grumbles, “and I am no lorekeeper, no sir, just an old man with very many books of obsolete records.”

“Isn't that what a Lorekeeper is...” Fjari pipes up, only to receive an elbow in the side from his sister for his efforts.

“My goodness, Master Baggins,” the lawyer acts as if it's the first time he's noticing the others, “I believe that's more dwarves in one room than I've met my entire life. Are they _all_ here in relation to the marriage in question?”

“I wish the answer to that were no,” Bilbo sighs.

“I beg your pardon?” Mister Whitfoot's eyes grow about two sizes, and Bilbo ignores the sniggering he hears from the youth. _How_ they seem to have bonded so well when just an hour ago they were threatening to dismember each other, is beyond him.

“I mean to say,” Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose, “one of them is set to marry my _technically still husband_ in some blasted dwarven political play I don't care for, and the other two are meant to keep her from bludgeoning my husband to death for forcing her into it in the first place.”

Lukh stifles a genuinely delighted laugh, while Thorin continues to look icier and icier where he sits. Mister Whitfoot blinks once, twice.

“Delightful,” he decides at last.

“Isn't it just. Now, please, what is it that we must do to get this charade over and done with?”

“Yes, hmm,” Mister Whitfoot seems lost in thought for a moment, “yes, here. I've bookmarked it. Yes. If the marriage contract is to be voided, the spouses in question are to remain under one roof for one last fortnight. Their job in this time given to them is to procure for themselves at least two witnesses, one each, prepared to sign a voiding contract, confirming that the union does indeed stand to be terminated. In addition, if tangible proof is manifested at the end of the voiding period of the frailty of the union, the Thane is more likely to... yes, Master Baggins.”

“You have _got to be_ joking.”

“Bilbo-”

“No, Thorin, I'm sorry, but this is beyond ridiculous. I am _not_ going to wine and dine him _for a fortnight_ just to prove what we have known for five years now! Just let us sign a paper and be done with it, honestly!”

“I'm afraid it's not as easy as all that, Master Bilbo, not if we want to adhere to tradition proper-”

“I don't want to adhere to _anything!_ ” Bilbo exclaims, fully aware of how taken aback everyone is by that, but not caring a lick. “I never wanted any of this! What I _do_ want is some peace and quiet, thank you very much!”

Getting up and marching out of the room is a bit easier than he'd anticipated, but it is only when he is outside in the backyard that the severity of the situation catches up with him, and he is suddenly a bit short of breath.

“Oh, I cannot believe this-!” he exclaims to no one in particular, trying to steady himself, but when he hears some commotion from inside, he is spurred on, and his feet carry him all the way up to the oak above his home, where he slumps into the grass, back against the great old trunk, and he shuts his eyes tight.

How did he let it come to this? Did they only postpone the inevitable ugly ending by putting some distance between them, is this how it was always going to play out? Is this how he truly _wants it_ to play out?

 _Why on earth_ did he ever agree to go traveling with dwarves in the first place?!

“It might be for the best.”

His eyes fly open, and indeed, it is Thorin, standing close by, infuriatingly serenely.

“You're joking, right?” Bilbo groans, “if you think _for a second_ that I'm going to make a fool of myself-”

“I think,” Thorin says calmly, something in his voice, in his gaze, ever so captivating, “that there are many things yet unsaid between the two of us. I did not envision us being faced with them in this way, but I did hope for a resolution, I'll admit as much. There is so much I wish to tell you, and apologize for. I have made so many reckless decisions as of late, but somehow, it's brought me right here, back in front of you, and I'm willing to take my chances calling it luck.”

Bilbo stares, the frantic sprint of his heart settling down somewhat, until there is only a heaviness he won't be getting rid of any time soon.

“You have always been reckless,” he notes, and a flicker of a smile tugs at the corner of Thorin's mouth.

“There's no denying that.”

“So... what?” Bilbo sighs, getting to his feet, “you're going to stay in my guest room for a fortnight while the rest of your company rampages around the Shire? What of Lukh?”

“ _Someone_ must arrive at Ered Luin,” Thorin shrugs, somehow frustratingly carefree, “I will send my people ahead. As for her...”

“I imagine she will cause you more trouble over there than right here,” Bilbo suggests, not entirely sure why.

“That is true. I will... I'll find a way. Please, Bilbo,” Thorin looks him in the eye, the most earnest he's been ever since he appeared back in Bilbo's life... goodness, just yesterday. “I don't delude myself into thinking that there is much to be salvaged of our union. But I do ask you to give me a chance to explain myself, may it take a fortnight or an afternoon.”

Bilbo feels... something, like a hushed voice at the back of his mind, trying to remind him that this is a _spectacularly_ terrible idea, but there is also... there is also the memory of the good they'd shared, of the trust they used to have for each other. The love.

And damn it, Bilbo has never _really_ been able to say no to those eyes.

“You leave your boots at the door, though,” he decides.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here's the big premise in all its mystery - a two week long will they/won't they. Intricate, huh? :'D I'm having fun with it tho and you guys seem to be, too, so yay!


	6. Chapter 6

“You _do not_ trail mud in all over my carpets, I told you this a hundred times before!”

“Well excuse me for coming immediately when you called for me!”

“Oh yes, that's mighty big of you. I wasn't exactly dying over here, I would have waited the ten seconds it would take you to lose your dreadful boots!”

Somebody remind Bilbo _why_ he thought this would be a good idea.

As Thorin stomps off, and he returns to preparing lunch, Bilbo only takes solace in the fact that this entire charade was put in place to prove that their marriage really is dead and buried – _that_ part of this ridiculousness is going just swell so far, it seems.

At least it's only them now – Thorin did indeed decide to send the majority of his company ahead to Ered Luin, to explain the situation in... whatever way he deems fit, Bilbo doesn't really feel like caring. Those troubles are his, and his alone. Their _mutual_ troubles, however, include the three _other_ dwarves actually left behind, and unleashed upon unsuspecting hobbits in full force.

Bilbo's reputation was atrocious to begin with, so there is nothing he can really do in that aspect – this is going to cost him dearly nevertheless.

He could have either chosen to set Lukh and her appointed guardians up in an Inn somewhere in Bree, as far away from him as possible, to avoid making them his responsibility, or right here under the same roof as him and Thorin, to which _the law_ itself, represented by the esteemed, and at that point rather exhausted, Mister Whitfoot, objected.

As it is right now, they've set up camp nearby, in the forest on the Brandywine riverbank, and Bilbo dreads every second, just counting down to when the first complaints start coming. _Dwarves_ are always his fault, after all, no arguing with that, certainly not in the eyes of his neighbors.

"Is it true that that King of yours is back again?" Mister Bellybur the fisherman saw fit to ask him that very morning, wrapping up his trout for lunch, ignoring Bilbo's staring altogether, "here to stay?"

"Well, he _is_ back," Bilbo had uttered, "but the _here to stay_ part is... well. Good day, Mister Bellybur."

And marching off and leaving gaping fellow hobbits behind has, after all, become a bit of a trademark move of his.

The truth is, he doesn't want Thorin to stay. Not in the least. The Thorin he used to know... well, Bilbo is guilty of wishing him back sometime, of course he is, but the Thorin of  _right now_  is enough of a bother to also make him wish none of this had ever happened. And muddy shoes, he senses, are only the very beginning.

"What on earth does _that_ mean?"

Correction, _all of this_ is a bother, and Mister Whitfoot the lawyer certainly isn't making things any easier on either of them.

"You remember the story, Master Baggins," the old hobbit sighs, index finger still tapping one paragraph in that accursed book of his, "it happened in your own family, after all."

"Why am I not surprised?" Thorin chimes in, leaning back in his chair with great amusement.

Fortunately, Bilbo is rather good at kicking underneath the table, and perhaps even more fortunately, for Bilbo's toes at least, Thorin _has_ agreed to take off his boots while inside the house.

" _That,_ " Bilbo growls, "was a very long time ago, thank you very much."

"Odolgar Took was a very wealthy young businessman-"

"Oh, do we  _ really  _ need to hear the story, Mister Whitfoot, honestly-"

"-but unfortunately he wasn't too terrific with marriage. He pursued Maribella Baggins for a very long time, but it was more of a business agreement to him, than anything else..."

"Charming," Thorin grins, and this time, he manages to evade Bilbo's kick.

"Keep your yapper shut," Bilbo half groans, half pleads.

"And of course, when she started expressing her doubts about his fidelity and... shall we say _dedication_ , to their union, the whole tumult unfurled."

"Tumult," Thorin raises one eyebrow at Bilbo.

"It was horrible."

"Yes. You must understand, Your Majesty," Mister Whitfoot exercises his annoying habit of addressing Thorin by a title that makes Bilbo's skin crawl, for some reason, "it wasn't exactly common back then to... separate. It's, well... not exactly common right _now,_ either, but alas..."

"It was the talk of the Shire," Bilbo takes over before Mister Whitfoot suffocates in his own awkwardness, trying not to look either of them in the eye. "My grandfather was still a faunt when it happened. They'd divide their belongings publicly, and were subject to so much... well, you know how hobbits can be. It wasn't pretty. And at the end of it, to add insult to injury, there was still... doubt. Wasn't there, Mister Whitfoot?"

"Hm? Oh... yes. Yes, doubt. Odolgar Took revived the entire tradition of the fortnight period, you know. All because his wealth started disappearing before his eyes, quicker than he could blink. Grasping at straws."

"Weren't Tooks always incredibly wealthy?" Thorin frowns, "or am I remembering that wrong?"

"Oh, the Tooks might have been wealthy, but the Bagginses were always the most cunning," Mister Whitfoot sighs, as if the very memory of the affair makes his stomach ulcers worse, "and Maribella Baggins was determined to see justice. A very sensible woman. Very ruthless. At the end of the whole horrible misunderstanding, she walked away with half of Odolgar's possessions, I'm given to believe."

"Old Took used to say she robbed him blind," Bilbo sighs, with some manner of satisfaction.

"...Surely we don't need to recreate those events in such detail," Thorin points out, looking somewhat disgruntled.

"We won't be recreating anything at all, until I take a look at that dwarven contract of yours," Mister Whitfoot grumbles, jotting down notes.

"Yes, that..." Thorin's gaze is suddenly pointed everywhere but Bilbo or the lawyer, "you must understand, I wasn't quite planning on..."

"What?" Bilbo barks, "doing this the proper legal way? Shocking. I'm telling you, Master Whitfoot, marrying into dwarven families, far more hassle than it is worth."

"I'm sure, I'm sure," the lawyer clears his throat roughly, sipping on his tea, "either way, as...  _ special  _ as this union is, its separation cannot proceed without the necessary documents. It might be easier on all of us if you simply decided to..."

"We're doing this," Bilbo says firmly, and similarly firmly ignores Thorin's glare.

"As you wish," the lawyer seems a tad despondent, as does Thorin.

"I will arrange for a raven to be sent to Erebor," he declares weakly, and yes, Bilbo wonders, how might  _ that  _ be received? What will Balin say, entirely too old for this sort of nonsense now? Will the rest laugh themselves crazy, or in turn be concerned? How  _ are  _ the others, anyway?

Bilbo feels a sudden pang of guilt, at not having kept in touch as much as he could have, should have... At failing. Because he  _ has  _ failed, as much as Thorin has failed.

He despises  _ that  _ realization greatly, and so he attempts to dispel it with cookies to go with their tea, and it only works about halfway. It is inevitable, now that they've agreed to it – two weeks, from Sunday to Sunday, and apparently a hearing with the Thane at the end of it to prove that their marriage really is void. About  _ that,  _ though, Bilbo certainly has some reservations.

Dividing their belongings sounds more exciting on paper, but Bilbo wouldn't dream of getting into Erebor's no doubt incredibly difficult and frustrating property laws – their hobbit counterparts are difficult enough, and the way he sees it, both of them will decide to keep their respective homes by the end of this... _tumult_ , and call it a day.

Is that really it? Is that all it will take? He postulates later, watching Thorin draft his letter back home, concentration and perhaps no small amount of resignation furrowing his brow. They're alone now, having sent the poor suddenly overworked lawyer away, and Bilbo could just turn a blind eye and pretend like nothing has ever changed, really.

Until, of course, he trips over Thorin's meager heap of belongings in the hallway, and gets squawked at by a bird.

Erebor ravens, he remembers, are among the cleverest animals out there, and he still vividly recalls the rejuvenation effort going into their nesting quarters in the mountain – indeed, later on, many of them even delivered Thorin's letters to Bilbo to the Shire, the flapping of wings followed by the gentle tapping of a beak on the window to the study...

Thorin finds him sitting on the ground staring into the bird's clever eyes, and Bilbo doesn't even bother looking embarrassed.

"The letter is ready," Thorin announces, somewhat cautiously.

"Well, good."

Briefly, Thorin is at Bilbo's eye level, picking up the cage with great care, the bird hopping around, looking almost excited.

"How do they find their way back home?" Bilbo asks a silly question, but the first one that pops into his mind, and he gets up.

"They're a part of a lifelong pair," Thorin answers, seemingly immersed in opening the cage, the bird hopping out to sit patiently on his forearm. "They can find their way back to their loved one from anywhere in the world."

"How then would they travel here from Erebor all the time?" Bilbo ponders, watching somewhat mesmerized as the raven obediently raises its wing so that Thorin may fasten a small leather pouch to its back.

"They knew to look for you," Thorin offers a cryptic answer at best, not sparing another word and gently carrying the bird outside – Bilbo watches as he whispers a short something to it, and then the raven squawks one last time, as if in agreement, and spreads its wings, ascending in a lazy arch and soon disappearing past the great shadow of the Party Tree, and into the horizon where, beyond the Lonelands and the moors, the forests and mountains, Erebor lies in wait.

The momentary longing Bilbo feels, to leave his home behind and follow, he attributes to his hunger, and goes back inside to start preparations for dinner before Thorin can say a word.

The evening finds them silent yet again, both of them finding solace in their respective writing – Bilbo devoting some more time to his memoirs, coming along ever so slowly, but coming along nevertheless if it means he gets to spend time alone in his study, and Thorin scribbling in the living room by the fireplace, presumably some sort of an explanation of all this for the Ered Luin dwarves to read.

But the truth is, Bilbo does a lot more staring into space, than actual writing. His thoughts are bothersome and persistent, simply refusing to leave him alone, worries and doubts and questions swirling in his head like impatient hens waiting to be fed, and he is incapable of shooing them no matter how hard he tries.

The presence of Thorin in his home is so palpable, though he tries to forget it – like a lead weight where a blissfully hollow space should be, an incessant buzz of an insect in a room you could have sworn was completely empty. Soon enough, Bilbo simply can't take it anymore, standing up from his desk abruptly. He doesn't exactly know what he might say to Thorin, but he knows he must say  _ something,  _ or all of...  _ this  _ will drive him out of his mind.

He marches into the living room full of closely undefined purpose, but what he sees steals his breath away enough to stop him in his tracks.

Thorin, who didn't hear him coming, is sat in the armchair by the fireplace, which is inexplicably lit even though spring is nearly finished – but Bilbo suspects it's less for the warmth, and more for the fire itself. He is smoking his pipe, mouthing at the bit thoughtfully, the embers of tobacco lighting up bright, and his gaze remains unfocused, eyes glazed over in that telltale sign of getting lost in one's thoughts.

Like a jolt of lightning, Bilbo is transported to a night years and years ago, starting out peacefully enough, but soon to shape the rest of his life for good... Thorin had sat by the fireplace on that night as well, and Bilbo hid in his bedroom, but the song of the dwarves, their deep voices and the passion in them, reverberated throughout his being. Something changed within him that night, and he recalls it now as if it were yesterday.

"I won't be much longer," Thorin speaks suddenly, and heat rushes into Bilbo's cheeks.

"No, I..." he starts, but then he figures,  _ of course.  _ Is there even room for anything else but the expectation of annoyance between them?

"I've set out some old clothes on your bed," he sighs instead, "I hardly think that measly little sack you've brought would suit you for a fortnight."

"It's suited me just fine until now," Thorin replies mildly, eyes still fixed on the flames.

"Which doesn't really speak for dwarven cleanliness."

"I don't think I want to know what you're accusing me of."

Bilbo opens his mouth to retort, but there's no real venom there this time, from Thorin or from him. It's a strange realization to say the least, and the flicker of a smile on Thorin's face as he turns away means he's experienced it as well.

"Thank you," he says, "...for the clothes."

"You're welcome for the clothes."

"If I could also trouble you for some tea-"

"Don't push it."

This time, the smile is definitely there, and Bilbo finds himself almost reciprocating it. He also finds he doesn't actually hate the idea of joining Thorin for a while – he must test the reach of his own benevolence, after all.

"How is Erebor faring, then?" he asks casually, idly tidying up around the room, and then, because he can't afford to be  _ too  _ nice, can he: "arranged marriages were always a strain on the economy, weren't they."

He hears what might well be a chuckle from Thorin, who responds similarly effortlessly: "Nothing  _ the economy  _ can't handle."

"Uh-huh. How is everyone?" Bilbo asks, hiding his own agitation at the question by turning his back to Thorin, seemingly very much preoccupied with rearranging his mother's crocheted tablecloth. "How are Fili and Kili?"

A small pause, and when Thorin resumes speaking, his voice is even, but lacks any sort of emotion, an indicator of wanting to keep something out of the conversation, something Bilbo is apparently still excellent at spotting after all these years.

"They are well. Fili studies extensively. He rules in my stead while I'm gone. A good exercise."

"To be sure," Bilbo smirks to himself, "and what of Kili? Have you forgiven him for his... affiliations yet?"

Yet another short silence, this time abound with a  _ very audible  _ frown.

"His ambassadorship in Mirkwood has been helping us a great deal in..."

"What? Learning not to hate elves based on the shape of their ears?"

"It's hardly as simple as – I digress," Thorin huffs, and Bilbo can't hide his laughter this time.

"...They make me proud," Thorin confesses after another moment, with an honesty that makes Bilbo's heart clench, "other than that, everyone else fares well. In fact, Balin and a few others have started talking about embarking on a trip to reclaim Moria. You remember, the one-"

"The abandoned one, yes, I remember! Isn't Balin... well,  _ too old  _ to be embarking  _ anywhere? _ " Bilbo exclaims, and this time, they laugh together, which is unexpectedly nice, and certainly  _ unexpected. _

"He doesn't seem to think so," Thorin shrugs, "and you know it's near impossible to talk him out of  _ anything. _ "

"True," Bilbo smirks, "my word. Moria. A bit out of the way, to be sure."

"To be sure," Thorin echoes, amused.

And it  _ is  _ familiar, and it is nice, and Bilbo enjoys it, of course he does, it's difficult not to. As long as they keep their distance from the truly burning topics that they  _ should be  _ discussing, it might as well be like the old times, except, of course, for the part where they used to spend their evenings occupying only  _ one  _ armchair, or the rug in front of the fireplace, or...

Oh well. Better chase those thoughts away sooner rather than later – all they will ever amount to is bothering Bilbo even further. He  _ could  _ ask something along the lines of  _ how did we come to this?,  _ but somehow it doesn't feel right, and too pathetic to work in any case. The point is, they  _ have  _ come to this, and now all there is left to do is... deal.

Which is why, when Thorin and him are in the middle of arguing about the differences between dwarven and hobbit agriculture, and a knock comes on the door, Bilbo isn't in the least disappointed, no thank you, but then again, when has a knock on his door ever meant anything even remotely good lately?

He's only given a second to ponder on how odd it is, Thorin and him somehow having ended up sitting close by, in the old armchair and on a stool respectively, before an even odder thing happens, the two of them rising in unison.

"At this hour, honestly," Bilbo grumbles.

"I haven't heard back from Gofris and Fjari yet, today," Thorin mentions, and the true meaning of that dawns on both of them only a second later.

And indeed, Fjari stands at their –  _ Bilbo's  _ doorstep, looking right disheveled, and not a small bit nervous, his grin entirely too wide and apologetic when Bilbo and Thorin stare at him mutely.

"What's happened?" Bilbo asks at last.

"Well," Fjari attempts to start, deflating significantly when he meets with Thorin's glare, much harsher. "We might have... a teensy bit of a problem."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god it's been a billion years and I'm really sorry, but if you follow me on tumblr I mentioned life getting in the way big time. But yES more shenanigans are here! Bilbo will be associated with dwarf trouble until his dying day...


End file.
